


Lucky F**king Man

by ItsSweaterWeather



Series: Lucky F**king Couple [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Foreplay, Romantic Fluff, Sherlolly Freeform, Slow Build, Surprises, Sweet Sherlock, i have this thing for fluids, married bliss, striptease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 03:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12572468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: Before he had time to take in this new, stunning view, she prowled over to one of their simple black Thonet dining chairs. She grabbed the curved, steam-bent wood back with all the skill of a seasoned Weimar cabaret performer - until she almost toppled off balance. Molly broke character and kicked her shoes clear to the other side of the room, giggling the entire time.“I can’t do this next bit, yet, in heels. But someday…," she apologized to her lone audience member and climbed up on the seat in her bare feet.





	Lucky F**king Man

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of Halloween-ish ( the story takes place in October), pre-NaNoWriMo exercise in ~~unedited~~ , unfiltered, nonstop typing - with sweet sexiness!
> 
> **NOW EDITED** Sadly, any remaining typos, inconsistencies, and assaults on the semi-colon are now on my head; no excuses. And I take full responsibility for this unbeta'd drabble. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy yourselves anyway :)

He heard the lock _click_ and smiled. Still. After all this time, the sound of the deadbolt giving way made his stomach flutter. The pink identification ring she’d slipped over the lip of the key so many years ago rasped between his fingertips, a reminder of when he’d first approached her about using 59 Larkhall Rise as a bolthole.

Molly said _yes._

The first of many _yes’s_ she’d bestow upon his head.

He didn’t believe in luck; but what a lucky man he was.

Sherlock trudged up the stairs - sixteen of them, not counting the five concrete risers that lead from the street to the Georgian’s two front doors. Her's was the one on the right and she’d bedecked it with a wreath.

_Theirs._ The door belonged to them, both of them, now. 

Lucky man.

He loved her artistic way with foraged bits of this and that: dried oak leaves like leather, interspersed with honeyed gingkos, acorns, and the odd feather. He especially loved her for the private cheekiness she put on full display: Chinese lanterns, the brilliant orange, heart-shaped little pods. They looked impossibly dainty on their own but proved formidable, invasive opponents lurking at the wild edge of Mummy’s autumn garden down in Sussex. 

Not content to stop at one nod to nature’s malevolent wit, Molly sprinkled etherial sprigs of conium maculatum along the shoulders of the wreath, out of the reach of little, curious hands. The plant’s diminutive, lacy, umbels mimicked the dusting of frost. And, just as frost killed, so, too, did conium maculatum. English hemlock. Poison parsley. Spotted corobane.

Molly preferred the wicked moniker ‘Devil’s bread’ to all the rest. _“I have an affinity for over-the-top Irish descriptives.”_

Lucky, lucky man.

As much as it pained her, Sherlock supposed she’d have to stop such dangerous expeditions now; leave those to Mummy and her garden club of dubious characters. She and Molly shared long hours together, walking the woods with a field press at the ready, then setting up shop at the kitchen table to record their bounty. Or, if inclement weather kept them indoors, they’d pass whole days absorbed in the fragile botany books handed down from Holmes woman to Holmes woman since before the Sussex manse was even a cottage. 

Heads bent together. Whispering. Laughing. Barely acknowledging the tea he’d made for them. 

He loved Molly for that, too; her ability to become so involved in something scientific that she neither noted the passage of time nor his presence. That made it easier for her to understand (and accept) the same tendencies in him. And love him nonetheless. 

Lucky, lucky, lucky man.

He shut the front door and London melted behind it, suffocated by a soft _thud_ of damp, swelling wood against the jamb. 

Sherlock counted the treads up to their flat and ticked off a mental list of sixteen times she’d saved his life, literally and figuratively; a ritual he engaged in on particularly trying days. Amazing how many entries he’d logged in their eight-year waltz, from acquaintance to friends to...  

His muscles ached, sore from the dead run he’d made through Hampstead Heath; the pursuit of a fiend who’d stolen fundraising jars from the Autumn Programme at Pax Lodge. While the troubles befalling a pack of Girl Guides weren’t his normal milieu, a case was a case. 

John’s whining still rang between his ears. _“Just look at their little faces, Mr. World’s Only Consulting Detective. You’re not going to turn them down, are you?”_

So he killed two birds with one _light_ jog uphill: he’d made John happy and the Girl Guide Troop’s day.

And they paid in biscuits, which pleased Mrs. Hudson. And him, much to John's chagrin.

After that, the day rolled alarmingly downhill. He and John sat through six client stories. He’d kicked five out of Baker Street on the grounds that their cases rated either dull or boring or both.  John called back three of the most egregious offenders, reminding him that wives generally liked the cupboards well-stocked and mini holidays on occasion. 

Sherlock pointed out that, in the grand scheme of things, Molly’s profession padded their joint bank account more than his share from the frankly ridiculous meanderings of two grown men with a crime-solving hobby.

“Yeah, well, I gotta put Rosie through the wild gap year you keep promising my two-year-old daughter, not to mention uni someday. So anything we can do to pad _my_ bank account would be most helpful, mate.”

“Point taken. But you should know, John, that Rosie shall be well cared for by an endowment from her uncle and auntie. You simply need to take care of yourself. And, so you're aware, you, too, are a beneficiary. Have been since the evening Moriarty decided to strap explosives around your chest and use you as a human carrot at the end of a hair-trigger stick. It’s the least I could do.”

John stared at him, mouth opening and snapping closed like a beached trout.

_That shut him up._

Mrs. Hudson didn’t need his financial support. Indeed, the woman had more shadow accounts than all the members of the House of Lords combined. What she required was emotional looking after, hence the retention of Baker Street by him as office, laboratory, and city pied-à-terre for John and Rosie.

And naughty love den whenever Molly decided to pop over on her way home from Bart’s - _home_ lying well south and across the river from Marylebone.

Lucky, lucky, lucky… How many _luckies_ did that make? And he’d just now reached the top of the stairs.

All he wanted to do was shrug off the day’s troubles (even though he delighted in the new casework), rest his head in Molly’s lap and feel the vibration of herhumming as she read the latest Journal of Pathology Sciences (he’d already dog-eared her contribution to the issue, pages 36-40). 

He had a bit of a wait on his hands, however. Her schedule overflowed with first years; their neediness always kept her late. He envied them her undivided attention and the way she looked at them from over the ridge of her new tortoise-rimmed glasses when she knew her students had phoned it in. Hers was the rare ability to coax the very best out of everyone with little more than a gentle nudge. And a single look.

Him included.

A bath sounded lovely, as did a few hours at the violin. Neither of which he’d indulge in. She’d managed to infect him with her tiredness as of late. A quick kip on the sofa would do until she wandered home.

John laughed to himself from somewhere in Sherlock’s mind palace.

_“I told you this would happen, Sherlock. No way to avoid it.”_

No, indeed. 

He didn’t mind though. On the contrary.

He opened the door to their flat and smiled. He couldn’t string together enough _luckies_ to accurately describe how fortunate he was to have  Molly in his life.

 

*****

 

The rooms were still and dark when Sherlock stepped inside. And cool. Hardly a surprise. October didn't treat flats occupying the top floor of drafty Georgian buildings too kindly. The same held true for November, December, January… the entire year, really, outside of July and August. Even then, one couldn't rely on the interior temperature holding steady.

He didn’t bother with the lights nor turning up the heat. And his Belstaff supplied an extra layer of protection against indoor frostbite so he gave into laziness and kept that on.

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen to set the kettle on but didn't bother flipping the switch; he didn't have the energy to make tea. He tossed his ring of four keys (Sussex, Baker Street, John and Rosie’s, Larkhall Rise) across the kitchen island. They landed with a hard _clang_ on the marble pastry board by accident. Even in the dim, the stone shown like the moon. It reminded him of Molly’s shoulders. 

And her constant admonishment not to toss his keys across her ‘baby’. And _his_ rejoinder that if she’d taken his advice and gone with the harder granite option, she wouldn’t need to _baby_ that slab of stone. 

_“Yes, Sherlock, I don’t give a fig about your Moor’s scale of natural mineral durability. Until you’ve rolled as much pie dough as I have —“_

_“— Mohs scale, Molly. The Moors, you may remember from your state school education, are, generally, a historical group of Muslim peoples from, but certainly not limited to, the Maghreb, the Iberian Peninsula —“_

He never got any further than the Iberian before she thew a towel or a carrot at his head. And he continued to annoy her in this fashion just so she’d wield the rare but infinitely enjoyable corporal punishment of hers; marching over to where he lounged, straddling his thighs between her knees and biting the tip of his nose. That often lead to lessons of another sort. 

Lucky ma —

Sherlock collapsed in a heap on the sofa and closed his eyes, content to bask in the flat’s peaceful ambient noise - the hum of the refrigerator’s motor, the _click_ of the stereo components waking up…

That seemed odd but not unprecedented. Sometimes static electricity did strange things to that heap of electronic gadgetry he’d erected next to the simple, aging turntable Molly inherited from her father - along with her dad's love of jazz, folk, and all manner of tune from the sixties and seventies.

He settled in and rested his head against the back of the sofa, disinclined to move until Molly came home. Sooner rather than later he'd hoped.

Faint traces of Sunday’s dinner still lingered in the air. While rib roast with horseradish cream (extra Worcestershire, his request) didn’t make a regular appearance at their once-monthly family dinners, Molly thought extravagant beef the perfect celebratory entree. 

_“A momentous Holmes anniversary,”_ she whispered, hand over her the speaker of her mobile to keep the menu a secret from whoever was on the line, _“requires a suitable dish, Sherlock. And, besides, it’s been ages since I’ve made Yorkshire pudding or a gratin.”_

_“Homes-Lestrade anniversary, please, Molly,”_ Greg interjected from the other end.

Mycroft and Greg may have gotten the roast but she’d ended the dinner with a triple chocolate layer cake; a wink and nod to his own insatiable sweet tooth (when he remembered he had one) and the aphrodisiacal myths associated with the amounts of tryptophan and phenylethylamine contained in the semisweet, bitter, and extra dark cocoas. 

To test the efficacy of the chemical compounding, he and Molly each licked one side of the paddle beater. Then they licked each other.

The test proved wildly successful. And almost cost the newlyweds for which it was intended their cake.

If he wasn’t so tired, Sherlock could’ve sworn that the cake memory had sparked the makings of an erection deep in his trousers. Roast cooked to bloody medium rare perfection (“ _I won’t get sick,”_  Molly promised, _“I know how you and Mycroft…and Greg and John and your father... like your beef cooked, or barely cooked as the case may be.”_ ) and a cake so chocolatey, it should be illegal to make (let alone serve), did that to him.

As did the spicy, warm scent of Molly’s amber perfume.

_Wait… what the…_

Soft light from accent dimmers in the ceiling washed over the non-working fireplace just as he opened his eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Holmes.”

Molly stepped out from the hallway leading to their bedroom wearing a 50’s style floral dress with little buttons lining the front - in two-by-two sets - from hem to modest v-neck and two big patch pockets. She wore her hair in its signature ponytail but with a black satin ribbon holding it in place instead of her usual utilitarian elastic. 

And a pair of cat ears. 

He had no idea why the cat ears but she could’ve tied a beak to her nose and Sherlock would’ve found her just as alluring. 

She’d left her face unadorned except for a sweep of clear gloss across her lips. Considering the havoc their first child had played on her skin in these early weeks of her pregnancy, it was a wonder she allowed _him_ to touch her face, let alone make-up. 

But, oh how she glowed now! Smooth and shiny in her tenth week, not a blemish or a red patch in sight. Honestly, he wouldn’t care (didn’t care!) either way; Sherlock Holmes went weak in the knees for Molly Hooper.

And the shoes… Jesus God. 

Black. High. Red lacquer soles. A peek of wine-coloured toes. His eyes had difficulty focusing on one spot: shoes? bare legs? the deeply seductive suprasternal notch at the base of her neck?

Sherlock didn’t have time to consider further. Molly pointed the remote she held and the surround speakers popped. A brass trio backed by drums and guitar sprung to attention - as did parts of his anatomy. 

She tossed the remote at him and, tip of an index finger gliding over her collarbone, fixed him with a look so innocent and wicked, he thought he might implode from the jumble of mind palace fantasies converging right here in the middle of their rather cluttered reception area.

“Just a little something I’ve been working on while you’ve been busy at Baker Street… _dad-dy._ ”

_Fuuuuuuck._

He was a Lucky. Fucking. Man.

The music revved up behind her, the unmistakable mid-tempo beat of the kind that generally accompanied striptease performances. Not that he'd any experience with such distractions. He was a married man. And, before that… well, before that he had a very curious mind and vivid imagination. 

She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled hard. “Hope you like it.”

He already loved it. Could die happy man not seeing the rest of it.

_Dear God, I don’t believe in you but, if you exist, please let my no good heart keep beating so that I may see this through to its end. Please. Exaulted…great…jubilant…powerful… Well. You get the idea, your Most…Grand…Highness. Thank you._

Molly strut toward him but stayed just out of his reach as a man’s voice growled over the music.

 

_"Baby, take off your coat_

_Real slow…"_

 

He could do no such thing at the moment. All the blood left his brain, his limbs, his vital organs, to flood more ‘important’ regions.

The hem of her dress swayed as she rocked her hips from side to side and mouthed along with the words. She pranced closer and placed her hands on his thighs, her touch at once shy and possessive. She dragged her fingernails down to his knees.

 

_"And, baby, take off your shoes._

_I’ll take off your shoes…"_

 

She eased his knees apart as she lowered her body so that her dewy, glowy face hovered there. Her mouth puckered in a sweet kiss, then parted and her tongueslid across her bottom lip.

Suggestion and promise. And he was a dead man.

 

_"Baby take off my dress…_

_Yes, yes, yes…"_

 

She hopped up and half stumbled, half slithered away from him, laughing at her beautiful, uncoordinated self and  reaching into one of her front patch pockets. She threw something his way and turned her back teasing him from over her shoulder.

A deerstalker.

 

_"You can leave your hat on_

_You can leave your hat on_

_You can leave your hat on…"_

 

Sherlock was many things, but 'fool' was not one of them; he dutifully put the hat on.

She turned back round, cheeks red from exertion or fluster, he didn’t know. Sherlock hoped the former. She had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. If anything, _he_ should be embarrassed by the massive erection now straining the front of his trousers.

And embarrassment was the last thing that came to his mind at the present.

Molly spun on the balls of her shoes (god, those shoes!) and faced him once again. She wrapped her fingers round the neckline of her dress in a coy pantomime of hiding her modest expanse of flesh from him.

Then she ripped the front open. From top to bottom. Buttons flew everywhere and skittered across the hardwood floor.

An inappropriate moment, perhaps, for him to remember John 19:23 - 24 but this evening’s programme had all the hallmarks of a religious experience: a choir (when one is having a religious experience, one doesn’t quibble over the gods choice of ‘rock and roll’ over ‘Westminster choral group'), a sinner (as if there be any doubt as to which one of them fit that description), and an angel (ditto _that_ one). 

 

_"Go on over there_

_Turn on the lights_

_No, all the lights…"_

 

His angel in question, his pathologist, and his bride - the mother of his child - pulled the satin ribbon from her hair and shook it out. The cat ears fell to the floor and Molly’s chestnut-coloured tresses floated in waves over her slender, creamy shoulders.

And the most criminal lingerie he’d ever had the good fortune to rest his eyes upon.

A million times the lucky man.

Before he had time to take in this new, stunning view, she prowled over to one of their simple black Thonet dining chairs. She grabbed the curved steam-bent wood back with all the skill of a seasoned Weimar cabaret performer - until she almost toppled off balance. Molly broke character and kicked her shoes clear to the other side of the room, giggling the entire time.

“I can’t do this next bit, yet, in heels. But someday…," she apologized to her lone audience member and climbed up on the seat in her bare feet.

 

_"Come over here_

_Stand on this chair_

_Yes, that’s right…"_

 

She rolled her shoulders back and dropped her head, baring the long column of her neck and taking unabashed delight in her own pregnant body; giving him tacit permission to covet every inch while she cupped her breasts and splayed her hands over her belly.

Sherlock felt the heat radiating off of her from where he sat. Not body temperature; a female strength he had only vague, marginal sense of, something he’d never experience outright - even when he buried himself deep inside her. A metaphysical molten lava had pooled in her belly and just begun to show. The divinity would grow round and rounder still as the months passed. The moon and Mars and the Millenia in one crazy, glorious, truly fucked up, magical human experience that even he, with the thousands of words he knew, couldn’t accurately describe. 

 

_"Raise your arms up in the air_

_Now shake ‘em…"_

 

And oh, how she did! Slender things floating above her head, showing off to perfection swelling breasts clad in a glamorous French (only the French could make such a garment) black lace brassiere with gold-threaded twining vines. The underlayer of sheer nude lining hid and highlighted her darkening areolae and taut nipples to mouth-watering perfection.

Molly wore a deep-vee suspender belt, the straps of which dangled over her upper thighs, six metal clips catching glints of light as they shimmied, freed from their regular duty of holding up stockings (although he wouldn’t mind seeing her in a pair of black seamed things in the future).

Peeking out from under the belt was a pair of matching French lace high-waisted knickers. The opaque side panels hugged her delicious, widening hips. The front panel mimicked her top; twining vines and a nude mesh under layer that offered him a coquettish glance at her coarser hair. He wanted more of that. Please.

As if reading his mind (and when had she ever not?), she did her most acrobatic move. Molly lowered herself so that her bum hovered just above her heels and rested her hands flat on the seat. She winked at him (!) and split her legs apart so that her bum sat squarely on the seat and her legs straddled the chair. Wide open. For him. 

And him alone.

 

_"You give me reason to live_

_You give me reason to live_

_You give me reason to live_

_You give me reason to live…"  
_

 

And how.

 

_"Sweet Darlin’…_

_You can leave your hat on_

_You can leave your hat on_

_You can leave your hat on_

_You can leave your hat on…"_

 

Oh god, he liked this view. It couldn’t get any better than this. 

It got better. Rapidly.

Molly lost whatever inhibitions she’d started with and strut over to him, coming to stand with one leg between his thighs and the other… The other she kicked up, almost knocking him square in the nose, and planted an arched foot on the sofa next to his hip.

“Ohmygod! I’m so… sorry,” she laughed. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do on this bit, too.” 

“No…no…it’s…fine,” he croaked. “Lovely. Really, really superb.” 

She guided his hands to feel their way over her thighs then up her backside, over cheeks covered in the same mesh and lace as the other semi-exposed panels. He made some prehistoric noise, neither grunt nor howl nor moan; a primal combination of all the sounds men made just before they begged forgiveness for what they were about to do. He had nothing now but base and corrupt thoughts and uncontrollable muscle urges. 

And Molly responded with encouragement, undulating her pelvis toward his face and arching her back while he held on to her full arse for both their dear lives. 

 

_"Suspicious minds a talkin’_

_Try’n’ to tear us apart…"_

 

He rested his head on her belly and bared his teeth against the lace panel, pressing against the sensitive skin below her navel. Where their child grew. _O’ That way madness lies,_ he thought to himself. He’d resume ‘expectant father’ and ‘nurturing husband’ duties in a few hours. Right now, he just wanted to dissolve into nothing more than the vibrations and colours of pure animal instinct.  

Molly tossed the deerstalker aside and thread her fingers through his hair; nails skimming his scalp, sending shockwaves down to his groin. As if he needed any more stimuli.

If a fire broke out now, he’d order her to save herself and the child, leave him to die in their flat because he couldn’t walk. They’d find him days later in the ash, no signs of struggle, just the remnants of his steel rod of a cock between both his skeletal hands, an indication that he sought sweet relief in one final, awe-inspiring orgasm rather than trying to make a painful dash to safety. 

And, in all honesty, they’d erect a posthumous statue in his honor, courtesy of John and Greg, for his dedication to the male urge.

_Erect_.  

God, he really was a fourteen-year-old boy.

Sherlock inhaled. Her chemistry had changed with pregnancy, grown more ripe and lush. Verdant. He liked to think the free radicals of his DNA that he'd unleashed on her system had something to do with her gamey new scent. He knew better, though, and simply relished his small but vital role in the process.  

Molly’s smell also pulsed with something sinister; the pungency of ancient energy that shielded all pregnant women whether they sensed it or not, borne of hormones and the body’s production of additional fluids. He smelled the iron seeping from her pores and tasted the metallic tang of her phantom blood in the back of his throat. 

And it turned him on to no end, his awareness of _her_ awareness of her own body. Her power. This primordial preprogramming hidden in the XX chromosomes that directed mothers to protect their unborn children at all costs. Above all else.

Something bubbled up in his brain… something about John or Rosie…

_Mary._

Nope. Not here. Not now. 

And the thought evaporated.

Only Molly remained, his anchor and his wide open sea.

She tugged on his hair, wrenching his face from her pants. Pleasure and pain at her hands. He wanted her to never stop pulling. She pressed her forehead to his, each of them slick with sweat.

 

_"They don’t believe in this love of mine_

_They don’t know what love is…"_

 

Sherlock couldn’t remember a time when he _didn’t_ love her.  His only regret was that he hadn’t told her sooner. More often. He endeavored to make it up to her, but then she’d go and do something like this, strip for him - for _him!_ \- when he should do everything for her.  

 

_"They don’t know what love is_

_They don’t know what love is_

_They don’t know what love is_

_They don’t know what love is…"_

 

Sherlock’s hands slid up the sides of her arms. It gave him a cheap thrill, in an evening of so many wonderfully cheap thrills, to feel gooseflesh pebble her skin at his touch. He slid bony fingers under the straps at her shoulders and eased them down.

Molly cradled his face between her palms and panted into his mouth.

 

_"But I know what love is_

_Sweet Darlin’…_

_You can leave your hat on_

_You can leave your hat on..."_

 

With a not so gentle shove, he forced the brassiere down to her lower ribcage and set his mouth to her breast, luscious mounds of flesh that he’d always loved, lavished attention on, now made fuller, heavier in part because he’d gone and knocked her up.

Lucky… lucky… lucky…

The music and the gravely-voiced man circled their final notes but not without one last chorus. 

Molly shoved his shoulders. Apparently, she had one 'last' too that she wanted to get to. Who was he to argue?

“Sorry, again…” she snorted. (God, he loved her unladylike snorts.) “I just have one more… move and… “ She planted both feet back on the ground between his legs and turned her back on him. 

With both hands on her knees, she looked over her shoulder at him. “She says, ‘in the real world, you’re not supposed to let them touch’ but…” Molly bit her bottom lip and he almost debased himself all over the inside of his trousers. “I think we both know where this is headed, don’t we? So, em, you’re more than welcome to touch if there’s something you see that you like… _dad-dy.”_

Molly couldn’t keep the laugh from busting out of her full-throttle. Her timbre was huskier than normal, downright filthy, as she shimmed her lace-clad bum over his cock. 

Sherlock liked what he saw and wanted to touch everything. With his hands. His mouth. His cock. 

He grabbed her waist and thrust at her backside with little ceremony or remorse. Her hands gripped his thighs and she let out the most obscene cry, grinding her hips into him. Again. Again. 

 

_"You can leave your hat on_

_You can leave your hat on…"_

 

Yes. There was no mistaking where they were headed. Rabbits. Wolves. Lions. Horses. Regardless of their current human forms, all that mattered now was the driving principle that linked all mammals together. Tonight, he intended to follow that bloodline back to its most basic intent: that of getting this woman down on all fours, riding her hard and putting her up wet, as the saying went. 

Lucky. Fucking. Man.

 

*****

 

“I’m _starving,”_ she sighed. “I’d ask you to run to the kitchen and fetch us a plate of cold beef and horseradish cream but I’m too tired to slide off of you.”

They lay in bed, him propped up against the pillows, Molly draped across his chest, naked but for the black brasserie still wrapped around her ribcage. The lingerie made such a beautiful contrast against her glowing ivory skin. He supposed he could’ve snapped it off of her but, honestly, his hands could only shift into two gears: down to her hips or up to her hair. His driveshaft did not idle in between.

At least not on their first go-round.

Or their second.

He closed his eyes enjoying Molly’s fingers drawing lazy circles around his areola. Sherlock did likewise along her scapula. “I’m too weak to move you off of me so we make an excellent team.”

She pinched one of his nipples.  “Yes, well. _You’re_ not pregnant.”

He cracked one eye open. “True. Which reminds me, Miss. Hooper. How many cases of impregnation while pregnant do you know of?”

“You mean superfetation?” she asked. 

He tested the word on his lips “Superfetation?”  

“Yep.” she nodded at him.

He settled back and closed his eyes again. "What an alarming word.”

“Think about how alarming it is for the mother,” she agreed.

“Hmm.”

She pressed her lips to his skin and spoke, the vibration of her voice rippling under his ribcage. “Let me think. In the UK? In the past two decades? Hmm…maybe one carried to term. I think a handful more in the States. We may stake our claim to the world’s first test tube baby but superfetation - even with all the fertility meds now available - is incredibly rare. Unless you're livestock.”

“Hmm.”

“Why ask, Sherlock?”

He smiled to himself, a grin so wide one could see it from space. “Hmm?” he hummed and opened his eyes, all uncomprehending innocence. 

Moly didn't buy what he sold. Never did. “Sherlock…”

He inhaled deeply and looked down at her, capturing her hazel eyes in his arresting blue gaze. “Because, Mrs. Holmes, I do believe I may have just gotten you with another child,” he said, triumph ringing in his tone.

Silence.

He furrowed his brow at her lack of an appropriately impressed response.

Then she laughed so hard, she made _his_ stomach spasm.

“So you think you’re that good at it, do you?” she teased.

“Quite,” he replied, slapping the last hard consonant and her bum at the same time.

“Tell you what, Mr. Holmes, let’s say we have another go-round with me on top this time and see if you can shoot for triplets,” she cooed.

He gently rolled her off of him and whispered in her ear. “I have very good aim. But my accuracy goes up with a bit of rest, so, would you mind?” 

“Middle age catches up to us all, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Hmm,” he grunted and made a motion for her to turn round so her back was to his chest. She obliged, curling herself into the space he’d created for her. “Molly,” he ventured.

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“When you said, ‘she says in the real world, you’re not supposed to let them touch’… ah, I’m almost afraid to ask but…”

“Yes?” 

“Who is… em, _she_?”  

“Why do you want to know?” She wasn’t defensive but he could tell by her tone that she had something she’d rather not give away if she didn’t have to.

“Hmm. OK. Give me one guess. Then just nod, you don’t have to go into details if I get it right —“

“ — Sherlock.”

“Is ‘she’…em, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Would you rate my performance lower if Mrs. Hudson had a hand in shaping it?

“God, no. I just… I just wouldn’t. Well, we’d just not mention Mrs. Hudson and striptease again in the same sentence. And I’d not think about which moves she’d taught you or what stories she told you.”

Molly clucked her tongue. “Sherlock, I’m surprised at you. That’s ageism of the highest order.” She turned back round to him and raised a brow. “When we’re old and gray and our superfetatious children are long gone from our home, should I put in for separate beds… or even separate rooms? Should I refrain from touching you or kissing you or whispering in your ear? Swat your hand away when you reach for me?”

John may keep him right but Molly? Molly kept him in his place.

“God, Molly, no. Please. Please don’t ever do that,” he said in all earnestness. 

She kissed the tip of his nose. “I won’t stop touching you until you're on the slab. And, even then…” She wiggled her brows at him.

“Mortuary humor, Molly? Really?” he said, a perverse note of pleasure threading through his admonishment.  

She settled back into place. “Em… Sherlock. We said that there’d never be any more secrets between us. Yes?” 

“Yes. Of course.”

Molly punched out a hard breath. “OK. So..  _Not_  Mrs. Hudson. Someone else…”

“Okaaaaaay..."

“Someone you know.”

He said nothing. Cold recognition shivered down his spine; black patent leather shoes with the red soles.

“Someday I’ll tell you how I tracked her down,” Molly promised. “But not tonight.This is our bed. You and me. And our baby.” 

He wrapped her in his arms and buried all three of them under the pile of sex-warmed blankets, comfortable knowing that nothing nefarious was going to happen to Molly or the child - at least not at the hands of The Woman.

He was right chuffed that the little pathologist in his arms had done what even MI6 had failed to do: track down a known, dead, traitor to the crown. And tapped her for striptease lessons. 

The dread evaporated, leaving him to this moment, the post-coital kip he enjoyed almost as much as he loved slipping inside her, especially now that she was pregnant. Molly fit into the crescent of his body; his little pale moon. Soon enough, she’d be an orb, eclipsing him in all her gorgeous fullness.  

It felt lonely, sometimes, surrounding her but never under her skin, with her, as she unconsciously gathered knowledge he’d never understand. Not the clinical information of books or the practical stuff of well-meaning friends. He'd never feel the data that only made itself known by way of additional heartbeats and tiny fists and feet rubbing at the underside of her belly.

Not jealousy. How could he ever be jealous of either her or the baby? Just… the most sincere ‘aloneness’ he’d ever felt. Before, when he was _lonely,_ without her, without John or Mary, or even Greg and Mrs. Hudson, that self-indulgent wanking did not qualify. He had the power to put an end to his loneliness at any time, chose not to - until John Watson showed up.   

Not lonely like Eurus. She had no control over her loneliness; no understanding of it. She didn't have the tools to make friends. He endeavored to ease her discomfort now - with Mycroft. Three siblings again; a whole unit. Of a sort. Not perfect. Hell, not even close _._ But whole in their strange way. And none of them alone in their oddness any longer. Eurus had her brothers again, Mycroft had Lestrade (poor Greg), and he had Molly (poor Molly).

Her pregnancy forced him to absorb all the _aloneness_ of the human condition; the inconsequential breaths that filled his lungs, the meaningless steps he took every day. Sometimes, he’d catch John’s eye and now (now!) he understood that look, John’s guileless, just-this-side-of-frightened “ _Yeah, well, you know. it’s just all about Rosie now. Forever.”_ look. 

And Sherlock nodded once at his best friend in true solidarity. They had this phase of life in common now.

He understood. Christ, did he understand now!

And Molly. She understood _him._ He knew the breadth and scope of her knowledge without question because, at times like these, when he was most in danger of letting the rip current of ‘aloneness’ carry him out to deep waters, she’d thread her fingers in his and guide his hand down to her still-small belly. No tiny punching fists or fetus hiccups to feel yet;just her pulse, her warmth. And her overwhelming love.

Lucky. Fucking. Man.


End file.
